Cleave
by Salmagundi
Summary: Germany and Italy were finally getting married. Romano can think of a lot of other things he'd rather be doing: like chewing on broken glass, for instance.


**Cleave**

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**Notes:** This is a sidestory to Beltaine, and comes shortly before the main story begins.

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Cleave (n)  
1. To adhere, cling, or stick fast  
2. To resist separation; to be faithful_

~April 6, 2009~

"Ve~!" Romano suffered himself to be hugged once again by his brother. He still couldn't believe that this was happening. Veneziano was ebullient - bouncing off the walls - and as much as he grumbled, Romano couldn't help but be swept up in the sheer force of his brother's good feelings.

Lest anyone be mistaken, Romano was still making it clear that he was not happy about this union. The only reason he hadn't protested a lot more a lot sooner was because he'd been absolutely convinced that the potato bastard was going to get cold feet and the whole thing would be called off anyway.

Now it was the day of, the papers were ready to be signed and they even had a priest, though it had taken quite a bit of convincing to persuade the Church that the personifications of nations didn't technically count as men. Not that Romano himself thought it was a problem, but the Catholic Church did not like homosexuality. Veneziano seemed remarkably selective in what parts of the faith he took to heart - or maybe he just didn't see it as homosexual either, or it could have just been the whole 'love conquers all' attitude of his - but there was one rule that he absolutely did insist on keeping.

It was the whole abstinence until marriage deal. Flirting was fine, even some touching, but Italy had laid down the law and told the potato bastard that he wasn't going to be sticking his greasy sausage anywhere until they were right in the eyes of the Lord. (Okay, Veneziano probably hadn't said it like that but, damn it, he should have!) Which was probably the reason they were going through with this marriage anyway - because, really, who else would have the potato bastard? If there was anyone else out there as stupid as his brother, he didn't want to meet them.

Not that the matter would have been such a big deal... but his brother would just not _stop talking about it!_

"Ve~ I heard it might hurt. Do you think it will hurt?"

Romano gritted his teeth. "I'm sure it'll be fine." He didn't want to think about Germany. He really didn't want to think about his brother having sex with Germany.

"But Germany is so big..." Oh dear God... what had he ever done to deserve this?

Poland tilted his head curiously, pausing in his brushing of Italy's hair. "Really? Like, how big?" Veneziano held his hands apart in indication and Romano felt his face turning red. "Wow... that is big..."

"Ve~ See? And I'm just not sure how it will work..."

"Well, Feli, when a plate of spaghetti and a bratwurst really love each other-"

'Augh!" Romano clapped his hands over his ears and screamed. How could they? He'd never be able to look at spaghetti the same way again!

The two of them had the nerve to turn and look at him as though he was the insane person in the room. His brother with that same clueless expression he usually wore, and Poland with a slight twist of the lips that made Romano think the asshole was doing this on purpose.

He opened his mouth to snap back some response, only to be cut off as the door slammed open and France flounced inside in his gayest manner. Not for the first time, Romano wondered if the fact that there were so few female nations was some kind of cosmic joke.

As far as he could tell, it went something like this: Make a bunch of people who are the personifications of countries - they get to feel everything, good and bad, that happens to the people in their respective countries. Then, just to further fuck with them, make it so that in order to operate with any success, they have to spend a lot of their time banging each other senseless. Third - and this was really where it went beyond funny and got just plain mean - make most of them male, and declare relations between two men to be a sin. Then just sit back and watch all hell break loose.

Yeah, funny alright. He still wasn't entirely sure what the punchline was supposed to be.

Regardless of that, he'd come to a conclusion about God. He was a sick, twisted bastard, and Romano wanted to stay on his good side.

He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall as France cooed and petted all over his brother in a handsy manner that only fell short of actual groping because Germany was in the same building and France hadn't downed enough liquor yet to throw away a rudimentary sense of self preservation.

"Feliciano! You look so cute, all dressed up," France reached out a hand to flick at the crown of white flowers that Poland had managed to drop on Italy's head at some point. "You're like a little angel." France beamed, kissing both of Italy's cheeks before trying for his lips. Veneziano ducked out of the way with a soft laugh. France pouted at him, giving what he undoubtedly thought was a fetching smile. "Come now, just one kiss."

"Big brother is silly," Veneziano giggled, "No more kissing! I'm taken."

"Not until you say, 'I do'." France prodded, "Come, cher, let us run off together. There are so many pleasures I can show you that you will never know tied down to one man."

"-especially _that_ man." Romano muttered, crossly. He was half-tempted to support France in his efforts, if only to call this entire ridiculous affair to an halt. If it wasn't for the fact that Romano knew the lecherous nation would inevitably turn his attentions to him as well - maybe another suggestion about how he and Veneziano looked so much alike, oh and wouldn't they be so pretty together? - he would have done just that. But at least he would never have to worry about the potato bastard hitting on him.

Besides, Italy was having none of it. "I belong to Germany now." His voice was oddly stern, but he patted France's shoulder without any hint of rancor. When it looked like France might say something else, Veneziano lifted a hand to touch the black and silver cross resting against the pristine white of his shirt. Romano didn't miss the way Poland lowered his eyes a little, the slight twitch at the edges of France's mouth. He'd already tried telling his brother not to wear it - that it was a needless reminder of events that were best left in the past, but Italy had insisted.

"Is that..." France faltered, looking for something to say. "Why are you wearing that?"

"It's a reminder of something lost..." Italy cupped the cross gently in his palm, a smile on his face that was both sad and sweet. "And a promise of something to come." He raised his head, his golden-brown eyes gleaming with the brilliance of a thousand stars. "You don't have to worry about what I'm missing, big brother. I'm happy with Germany. This is what I want."

"I see." There was something in France's eyes, a sort of muted shock. Romano could only identify it because it was something like what he was feeling himself. His brother was never so serious.

For the first time he put aside the years of resentment, the anger, the many things that kept the two of them separate and distinct. For a moment he let himself just be Italy - the one Italy that they were together. What he felt radiating from Veneziano had roots set deep, down past the farthest point his awareness could delve, and it made him feel small and grubby inside.

His brother was looking at him, aware of what he was doing but not of the reason behind it. A puzzled frown twitched at the corners of his mouth and Romano found he couldn't bear to see that expression. "Feh. Marry the potato bastard then, If it will make you happy." Romano tried to sound cross, but he wasn't sure he managed it. Veneziano's arms were around him in a warm hug and he smiled, despite himself. He supposed he could let it slide just this once - it was his brother's big day, after all. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he would have the rest of their lives to make Germany's existence a living hell.

Italy pressed their foreheads together, still beaming, and Romano felt a pooling warmth in his chest. A moment later, he sensed it - only a second before his brother let out a choked noise of shock and went down like he'd been shot. "Feli-" His own voice cut off in the middle of his brother's name and he gasped at the sensation in his middle. It was not an unfamiliar pain, but it had been a while since he'd felt it so strong. Since Veneziano had become the main representation of a unified Italy, Romano knew most of the country's pains to a lesser degree. If he was hurting like this, his younger brother must have been in agony.

Romano was aware of Poland freaking out nearby, of France running off somewhere, but his attention was on Italy - both Veneziano and the wrenching pain in his gut. His brother was curled on the floor, gasping like a landed fish and Romano's panic soared as he saw a trickle of blood run down the corner of Italy's lip. "Shit, shit, shit...." He pulled Italy toward him, cursing through his fear.

A thundering voice surged around him and Veneziano half-turned in his grip, eyes lighting up despite the pain. "Germany." A cough, then a tone that seemed like a painful mockery of his normal cheerful self. "You're not supposed to see me before the ceremony," He chirped, a sound like a dying bird. "It's bad luck."

"Feliciano-"

"Tsh... tsh..." Italy made a shooing motion with one hand, like everything was okay and he wasn't bleeding all over his white shirt. "Germany~" He drew out the name long, that wheedling tone, but Germany wasn't giving in this time.

Romano looked up as Germany knelt beside him, surprised when the large nation actually took a moment to ask, "Are you okay?"

"Fine." He gritted the words out through his teeth, not bothering with his usual epithets in regards to the potato bastard. "Fucking idiot got the brunt of it..." Then, a second later, his voice accusing, "Why did it have to be you, dumbass?"

"Romano," Someone calling his name, a hand on his shoulder. "Lovino!" Someone slapped him across the face and he half-turned, snarling.

"Don't fucking _hit_ me!" Or that was what he meant to yell. Halfway through it, he caught a face full of water and most of the words came out in a garbled sputter.

Poland looked down at him with icy calm. "You're not doing anyone any good by freaking out. Do you have ahold of yourself now?"

He gasped a few more times, glaring up at Poland before being forced to admit to himself that the water had effectively quelled his immediate hysterics. He wasn't about to say so to that cross dressing idiot though. He turned his back on Poland, looking to his brother who was nuzzling cheerfully against Germany's chest, despite the fact that he was still bleeding on the bastard.

It was the broken tone of Germany's voice that garnered the first soft emotion he'd ever felt toward the man. Romano wasn't sure if it was sympathy or just pity. Germany stroked Veneziano's hair, his hands shaking, and just this once, Romano laid a hand on the huge nation's shoulder in a pitiful attempt at comfort.

Romano felt the first cracks starting to creep their way across the two of them - across their unified Italy - and a dark certainty settled its way deep beneath the surface. Not seen... not yet... but there. "Don't worry, Feliciano... It'll be okay." And how could he say it, when he didn't even believe it himself?

"Of course it will be okay..." Italy murmured, unperturbed, a dreamy smile on his face as he traced the edges of the cross he was still wearing around his neck. "I'm getting married today..."

_Cleave (n)  
1. To separate or cut with a tool, such as a sharp instrument.  
2. To split, or cause to split, especially along a natural weakness._

~fin~

_Author's Note: In case it wasn't clear, this takes place on the date of the L'Aquila earthquake. I also just find the word "cleave" fascinating, as it means both "to join" and "to part"._


End file.
